Fear Itself
by Lmuffins
Summary: An episodic story following the history of the United States. Alfred faces his greatest fears, but becomes more dangerous than what terrifies him.  From the Minibang.   Includes self-harm in the Civil War chapter.  Optimistic Despite the Angst.
1. Thunder and Lightening

Originally written for the minibang, which can be found here:

http: .com/aph_ minibang

Arthur could not remember the last time he had felt so at peace. It was a quiet evening. There were no nearby houses, none of the noises made by people. There was simply the soft lullaby of nature, the gentle sounds of crickets chirping and the wind blowing through the trees.

He liked this new land. It was so big, so relatively empty. He felt no yearning for his own land at the moment. Crowded civilization seemed unnecessary so long as he had the little house and home that he had built on this, his first visit. He had been warned by his men against settling outside the gates of Jamestown, where there was no protection from the natives. But Arthur had needed a place away from the settlement, a place where his new colony could stay and grow without seeming out of place to the new British settlers.

Arthur looked up from his knitting to gaze at the small child who was playing by the hearth. The very sight of him filled Arthur with a strange new domestic sort of happiness. Alfred's little hands clutched hastily sewn dolls that Arthur had made for him earlier that day. He would get the precious child something better on his next visit, but for now this was the best he could offer. The gifts were enough for the boy, who was currently making the toys whisper to each other. He was intent on his little game, and he watched the dolls very seriously as he murmured to himself.

"You should be going to bed soon," Arthur said. The little boy looked up, surprised. He had been so absorbed in his play that he had practically forgotten that his new caretaker was in the room.

"Don wanna go to bed," Alfred told him, pouting. He clutched his cloth dolls close to his body, as though he thought that Arthur meant to take them.

"A growing little lad such as yourself needs his rest," Arthur said, standing up. Alfred frowned as he approached, and when the empire reached out to pick him up, he fell over on the floor and just out of reach.

"Don wanna," he said into the ground. Arthur bent lower and picked the child up, bringing him to rest on his shoulder.

"Come now, you mischievous little imp, lets get you tucked in." Arthur carried the squirming child, who had laughed happily at being called an imp, over to the bed in the corner. He placed Alfred on top of it, before bending down to pull out the tiny trundle bed that was just his size. Alfred was yawning when he looked back up, and Arthur smiled.

"Not sleepy," he protested when he saw the empire looking at him.

"No more protests, Love, into bed." He plucked the child from his own larger bed, before settling him nicely under his tiny blankets. He kissed the child's forehead, gently brushing golden locks from the boy's face as he did, before standing up and returning to his knitting in the corner of the room. He left only one candle lit for himself, and the little boy began to slumber in the darkness.

oOoOo

Arthur awoke suddenly, breathing heavily in fright. It took him a moment to calm down and realize that it was only thunder that had startled him from sleep. The room was pitch black, and Arthur searched around for a candle within arms reach. He found one on his bedside table and fumbled with the flint to try and get a light.

Lightening struck again, bringing sudden clarity to everything around him. In that brief moment of sight he noticed one important thing: Alfred was not in his bed.

Arthur lit his candle and stumbled out of bed. He hurried around the small, one-room, house searching desperately for the tiny child. He was nowhere to be found. Still in his nightclothes, Arthur hurried to the door and flung it open.

"Alfred! Alfred!" He cried desperately. He could see nothing but darkness and rain. He cupped his hand over the flame of his candle, desperate to protect his only source of light. It seemed so suddenly pathetic in the face of the storm.

Arthur closed his eyes and tried to think. The sound of wind and rain filled his ears and made it near impossible to order his thoughts. Yet, hidden behind the sound of the billowing bluster, he suddenly made out a high-pitched scream. His eyes shot open and he ran forward. His candle died in the wind and he was left in almost complete darkness, but he was bent only on following that cry.

It was consistent, long and unending. It would stop occasionally only to be picked up again in a second. When he thought on it later, it seemed obvious that it was not the cry of someone in danger, but in the moment he thought only of Alfred's safety.

Lightening struck again, and suddenly Arthur saw him. Alfred was standing at the top of a small hill screaming into the night. The wind whipped around him, causing his infant's gown to flap about him wildly. His hair was plastered to his forehead by the rain, his little eyes were screwed up tight, and he stood there screaming.

Arthur rushed forward, asking no questions but simply scooping the child up into his arms. He hurried back to the house, trying to find his way by the light from a mere sliver of moon. Another bolt of lightening rent the sky and lit the way to the little house. Arthur hurried towards it, rushing in and shutting the door as soon as he entered.

He placed Alfred on the ground, before rushing about in a desperate desire for a candle and a light. When he found one, he at last turned to the child with a look of frightened incredulity.

The boy stood stock still in the middle of the room with a look of utter terror on his face. He had stopped screaming when Arthur had plopped him down, and it seemed as though he hadn't moved since.

"Alfred, what in God's name were you thinking?" Arthur gasped. He still hadn't quite caught his breath. Alfred opened his mouth to speak, but managed only a squeak. "You could have been struck, you could have been killed, I'll be damned if you don't catch a cold. What were you thinking?"

Alfred burst into tears, wailing at the top of his lungs. Arthur rushed forward, kneeling down to hug the boy where he stood.

"Shhh. It's alright. You're fine. You're fine. I promise, you're safe," he murmured. The child quieted, still crying but less violently so. Arthur smiled at him and pushed wet hair from his forehead. "The two of us look a right mess now, don't we? We'll have to fix that."

He tended to the boy first; taking a blanket from the bed and drying him as best he could. He slipped Alfred out of his soaking gown and wrapped a fresh blanket around him when he was done. He then dried himself, changing into a pair of trousers, before laying out both of their nightclothes to dry.

Alfred was still sniffling in the middle of the floor when he was finished. The storm was dying down at last as Arthur picked him up and carried him to the big bed.

"Can you tell me now, Lad? Can you tell me what you were doing?" Arthur asked soothingly. Alfred nodded seriously.

"I was fighting the storm."

"What?" Arthur asked, bewildered.

"I was scared," the boy told him, his little eyebrows knitting together in concern.

"I understand that. It's perfectly normal for a boy your size to fear such things. But why on earth were you out there screaming?"

"It scared me. So, I wanted it to go away. I wanted to hurt it."

"You can't hurt a storm, you silly thing," Arthur said hugging him.

"I know. So I didn't know what to do."

"So you were screaming at it?"

"It's hard to think when you're scared," the boy whimpered, and he buried his head against Arthur's chest. The empire rubbed the child's back reassuringly, watching him with concern in his eyes.

"When I was very small, and I use to be afraid of thunder, I would always try to hide. I think most people hide when they're frightened of storms," He said this to Alfred, but it was more a matter of thinking out loud. He was trying to figure out precisely what had possessed the child.

"But when ever something scares me, I want to hurt it. I want to kill it. I want it to go away," Alfred told him. Arthur pulled him closer. Something about those words frightened him. They seemed unnatural, spoken in the sweet cherubic voice of his blue-eyed colony.

"You do that with other things that scare you?" he asked, trying to sound calm.

"When animals roar, and I'm scared, I hurt them 'til they leave me alone."

Arthur closed his eyes and tried his best to think. What was it he should say to this frightened child?

"Listen to me closely, Alfred. You mustn't let your terror get the best of you. You must always, always, always think before you act. If you let your fear get the better of you, that is when you will get hurt. If you keep your head, nothing will harm you. Do you understand me?"

Alfred looked at him and nodded sleepily, but the tiredness behind his eyes, betrayed his sincerity. There was no telling if the child would remember his words come morning.


	2. Witches

He had been in Virginia when he first heard the news. After a long day of working in the small field near his house he had wandered into town to find something to eat. Alfred had gone to the local inn, where most of the men in town were drinking after their own workdays. The nice woman, who owned the inn with her husband, gave Alfred a roll and some cheese before patting him on the head and sending him to sit at one of the tables.

He had been happy, and quickly began in on his meal. He wasn't paying attention to the men by the fire until they began to get loud.

"God's honest truth. They've found witches up in Massachusetts!"

Alfred's grip on his roll tightened until it turned to crumbs in his hand.

"Aw hell, it's all puritans up there, ain't it? Bet they see witches everywhere."

Alfred was out of the inn before he heard anymore. He knew about witches, he had heard stories before. Witches were evil women who had made pacts with the devil. They sold their souls for a little bit of power, and they could perform unspeakable deeds in the dark of night.

He didn't like the idea of there being witches in Massachusetts. Massachusetts was a part of him, a part that he'd always found to be particularly religious. The idea that there was evil, ungodliness lurking inside of him made him shiver.

Alfred didn't know what to do. He didn't want to see the witches. He didn't want to be anywhere near them, but he wanted them gone, out of him. He stood for a moment in the doorway of his house, shaking all over. In the next second he was packing up what little he had, and he was setting out for Salem.

oOoOo

News travels slowly across the ocean. Arthur was unable to visit his colony until the trials were winding to a close. When his ship docked in Boston, Arthur looked around expecting to see his young colony waiting for him at the dock. The boy was nowhere to be seen.

Uneasily the empire made his way into town. He pulled his cloak tightly to his shoulders, hoping to ward off the cold air of the coming New England winter. The crowded city seemed unusually subdued and panicked all at once. There was a ceaseless feeling of being on edge.

He was walking by the jailhouse when he noticed a child standing restless before it. He was pacing back and forth, pulling at his clothes, and biting his little fingers nervously. He did not notice Arthur.

"Alfred? Is that you?" The boy jumped in surprise. His eyes were wide when he turned to stare at Arthur and his once plump cheeks were drawn. At first he didn't move, but suddenly he flung himself at his guardian and wrapped his skinny arms around him.

"Arthur I thought I'd never see you again. I thought it would be hell hear before you ever came back!" He wasn't crying, but breathed heavily as though he were.

"I've heard some frightening things, lad. Tell me what you know."

"We've had witches, Arthur. We've had them all over the place. They had so many in the local towns that they sent a lot of them here." The boy put his skinny fingers in his mouth and chomped at his nails. "We've hanged them. I'd never seen anyone hanged before. I don't think I like the part where they go all still."

"How many have you seen?" Arthur asked slowly.

"All of them. I- I try to go to all of them. I have to. Because it's part of purifying myself."

"Purifying?" Arthur asked.

"I don't want any sin in me." He did not speak in the voice of a person who loved god, but rather in the voice of one who feared the devil. Arthur didn't know what to say, he ran his fingers through the boy's hair and sighed heavily. Alfred buried his head in Arthur's shirt, "I think some innocent people may have been killed."

The empire was not surprised. In his experience, witch hunts never led to anyone who actually knew magic, they were simply a way of weeding out the unwanted segments of society.

"They're changing the way they do the trials now. They're only using regular evidence now, nothing that can't be seen. I'm scared." He stepped back and looked up.

"What scares you? The fact that they were being illogical before?"

"Oh, oh no!" Alfred said jumping back. "I'm afraid if they're too easy, some of witches will get away!"

"What about all those innocent people that you just told me about?"

"A few innocent people might have to die for everyone's safety." He said it sternly, but when he looked and saw Arthur's face, he faltered, "Right?"

"It's a dangerous path, Lad. It's not hard for those who are trying to protect to become worse than the threat."

"Oh," Alfred said quietly. He chewed nervously at the collar of his shirt. "Have I done something wrong?"

Arthur bent down and picked the child up, "There's nothing can be done about it now, boy. The panic is slowing now, and things will be normal again. The life of a nation is filled with fears, and wars, and panics. You'll be used to it one day."


	3. English Rule

Mathew had said he was spoiled, so Alfred had told him that he was short. Mathew had then murmured that he would get taller someday, maybe, he hadn't grown quite so fast as Alfred, but that didn't mean he wouldn't. He had become quiet then and pouted. Alfred had pouted too, but he knew that he must have looked silly. Mathew was still just small enough to get away with it, but Alfred was starting to look like a man and pouting was undignified.

They were sitting together now, staring into the fire on Alfred's hearth. Alfred picked up the iron stoker that leaned against the fireplace bricks, and poked dejectedly and the logs.

"I still don't see why he has to go changing the rules on me," he said angrily.

"It's just a few taxes, Al. All the rules about trading were around before. He just never made you follow them." Mathew looked nervous as he spoke, as though he thought his brother might react badly.

"Exactly. He's always had stupid rules on the books, I guess, but he never made me follow them. He never made me do anything before. He just let me do whatever I wanted to. I liked it that way, and clearly he wasn't bothered by it. Why has everything got to change?"

"He has to pay for…" Mathew grew quiet suddenly, "he has to pay for…" he let out a long shuddering breath, "the war with France. It was expensive. And he fought it largely on your behalf."

"He got total control over you didn't he? And he wouldn't let me settle any of the other new lands he got from France anyway. He's the only one who got anything out of it." Alfred lay on his back and glared at the ceiling.

"He doesn't want you picking fights with Indians. That's why he wouldn't let you settle over there. Besides Alfred, you're a colony, you couldn't expect him to use _laissez faire_ policies forever."

"I'm gonna tell him you were speaking French," Alfred growled. Mathew didn't say anything; both boys went back to pouting.

oOoOo

Mathew had gone back to his own house a few months ago, and currently Arthur had come to visit. There was tension between colony and empire, and Alfred did not like to stay in the house. Arthur was constantly harping on him, always mentioning something or other that Alfred needed to improve upon. That or he would order Alfred about, almost seeming to find chores just to keep his colony busy. It didn't help the situation that they were currently staying in Alfred's Boston apartment and not in one of his larger residences somewhere else. It made it impossible to stay inside without constantly stepping on one another's heels.

Consequently, Alfred had left the house just to get away from his guardian. He was in a sour mood and he dug his hands deep into the pocket's of his coat as he stomped down the street. He watched out of the corner of his eye as a small boy came running merrily down the street. The child was laughing with the simple joy of having the wind on his face, but he stopped abruptly when he heard a sharp reprimand. A middle aged man, undoubtedly the boy's father, caught up with him and took him firmly by the wrist. Dejectedly the child settled down and let himself be led unhappily away.

Alfred watched him go, feeling his own blood boil with indignation for the boy's situation. Where was the harm in running free like that, and what right had anyone to stop someone who was so joyous? It wasn't fair. Just because the father was bigger and older he could do what he wanted. It was just the same with England, just because he was older and bigger-

Alfred paused as he passed a large shop and studied his reflection in its expansive windows. The figure staring back at him was that of a man. So what if his face remained somewhat boyish? His shoulders were wide; his stance was firm. He looked strong and impressive and, more than anything, bigger than England.

He had known all this, of course, but never before had it struck him quite so strongly as at that moment. He was practically entranced by his revelation, and it was not until he heard shouting behind him that he was knocked back to earth.

Quite suddenly the crowded street behind him seemed to be flowing in one direction. Large groups of men were all headed towards the docks. Bewildered, Alfred followed them.

The crowd at the docks was thick and nearly impenetrable. The men Alfred had followed were forced to stop, raising themselves up onto their toes in a failed attempt to see over the heads of the people in front of them. Alfred, however, made his way to the head of the crowd without difficulty. Whether his strength allowed him to push forward, or the people let him through due to some instinctive knowledge of his nationhood was unclear, but either way Alfred found himself at the head of the mob.

A smaller group of men, Americans- Alfred could tell just by looking, had cornered a single British citizen. He was a tax worker, a thin, bespectacled, nervous looking, middle-aged man. He seemed almost surprised to find himself the target of colonial hatred.

"Please I'm just here to do my job. Please, let me go!"

"He says we should let him go boys. You think we should let him go? Doesn't he sound like a tyrant?"

On one level, Alfred knew that the man sounded nothing like a tyrant. He was weak and pitiful. The poor man was _begging_. But he sounded like England. He had heard that accent so many times before. He had fled his own home to escape it and the constant criticism and demands that it always spoke. That accent barked out the rules that were always stopping him from doing as he pleased. That voice curtailed his freedom, and the man sounded like a tyrant.

Alfred stepped forward and grabbed the shaking man by the shoulders. He held him up in front of the ring-leader of the mob. The leader smiled at him.

"Thanks for the help lad. And now," the man turned to the rest of the crowd, "has anybody got any tar?"

oOoOo

"You haven't touched any of your dinner, Alfred. Is there something bothering you?" Arthur asked, watching his colony closely over the rim of his teacup.

" 'M fine," Alfred mumbled staring miserably at his food.

"Are you positive? I heard there was some trouble this afternoon, just around the time you left the house. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

Alfred made a noncommittal noise, and poked his potato unhappily.

"Tar and feathering. It is truly a cruel practice. It has no place outside the army, not in this new age of enlightenment. People can die from it you know. Did you know that, Alfred, that people can die from tar and feathering. Not just from the extreme heat, but afterward too. It can get into the skin and make the body rot."

His sharp-eyed glare was still set on Alfred, who squirmed under the weight of his eyes and his words. Alfred felt sick. The guilt had been eating away at him since he'd arrived back home. When his anger and sense of injustice has subsided, the horror of what he'd just seen and just done became clear. He could not get the sight of that poor man writhing, burning and naked on the docks out of his mind. He felt sick with himself.

"Alfred, what do you know?" Arthur insisted.

"Nothing. I wasn't there."

"Liar. Boy, you're lying to me. I know you were there, and even if you weren't, I've seen the glint of discontent in your eyes far too often for my liking. You had better calm yourself down, Lad, before I'm forced to punish you in ways you couldn't even imagine. For a boy who sees a handful of taxes as an injustice, I'd hate to see how you'd act if I actually tried to control you." Alfred looked up indignantly, but Arthur cut him off. "Away with you now. I don't want to speak anymore to you today."

Alfred stood up, to his full height, and exited the room. Arthur's words and his threats had the opposite affect than what was desired. As he made his way to his room, Alfred's guilt dissipated, and his anger at Arthur returned, this time twice as strong.


	4. Himself

Alfred had convinced himself that ignoring the problem was the best course of action. He had spent most of his life doing it. It was one of the few things in his life that truly made him feel like a coward. Alfred knew that slavery was wrong, but he was so afraid that if they got rid of it, he would fall apart entirely.

But the voices got louder each year. The voices that said he depended on it, or that said it was holding him back, the voices that said it was the will of god, or said it was an affront to Christianity, and the hardest voices to ignore, those that cried out for freedom.

Alfred thrived on the love of his people, and knowing that he couldn't please them all at once ate at him. He didn't want to make any decision because he knew it would anger someone, so he made no decision at all. He stubbornly, determinedly, and fearfully remained as ignorant as possible.

As time passed his fear grew stronger. He could feel his mind torn in different directions. He started listening to everyone, and agreeing with everyone. Everywhere he went he would argue with himself. When Kansas tried to win its statehood, and people died for their beliefs, Alfred thousands of miles away in Washington, watched blood soak through his shirt. Even in his pain, he could not decide whom to blame.

oOoOo

Alfred didn't know where he was. This had never really happened to him before. Even if he didn't always know the exact path to take to get somewhere, as a nation he had some instinctive idea of where he was in the country. He didn't know now. It was difficult to keep anything straight in his mind when he wasn't entirely sure who he was.

He was laid out in a cave somewhere huddling hidden from a rain storm outside. He had been trying to find the Northern army, having woken up in confusion surrounded by Confederates. In the middle of his search however, he began to wonder why exactly he wanted to be on the Yankee side. The storm had put an end to his confusion and he had taken the closest cover he could find.

The fire he had built flickered light across his glasses as he threw another stick into the flames. His soaked hat lay beside him, and he wrung it out again. It was a gray cap, and he eyed it wearily as he set it down and pulled his blue coat closer around his shoulders. His eyelids began to flutter in exhaustion and he collapsed asleep onto the ground.

oOoOo

When he awoke again he was a determined Confederate. He tore his Yankee coat off in disgust and hurried to the mouth of the cave. The rain was pouring still, and he knew it would be utter foolishness to venture out into it.

He returned to his place by the fire, which was now little more than a few fading coals. Looking anxiously about, he stoked the fire back to life. He sighed and lay back on the ground, staring at the rocky ceiling. He had the curious feeling that there was someone else in the cave with him, although he knew he was completely alone. He sat up again, scanning the space around him with his eyes. He was breathing too fast and he knew it, but somehow he couldn't help but let his fear take control.

For a moment he saw another figure sitting across the fire staring at him angrily. He was in the cave with a Yankee. Alfred moved to attack the other man, but as suddenly as he came the man was gone.

"Must be a fever," Alfred muttered to himself. He sat back down and shivered, less from sickness or from chill, and more from fright. Unable to shake the feeling that he was not alone, Alfred seized a stick from his kindle pile and began to write in the dirt:

"Come back Yankee and I'll kill you".

oOoOo

Alfred's eyes fluttered open and he sat up in confusion. He felt remarkably cold, and reached desperately for his coat. He wrapped it around his shoulders and sneezed. He felt cold metal slide down his nose, and he became suddenly aware of his glasses. He seized Texas from his face and let them skitter across through the dirt.

The frames landed besides letters scratched in the earth. Alfred read the message and his blood ran cold, but he would not let some lurking rebel get the best of him. He wrote his own message besides it:

"You won't get the best of me"

But he stopped in the middle of his writing and studied the two messages closely. The writing was exactly the same. He swallowed heavily as he realized that he had written both messages.

He was going mad. He couldn't handle it any longer. He couldn't stand the idea that as loyal as he felt to his government in the moment, somewhere in him lurked the seeds of rebellion. Tears came to his eyes and he sat and wept into the dirt. He wanted so badly to be himself again, or at the very least to be only one of these new personalities.

In the moment he hated his other self, his confederate self. He was frightened to let himself sleep again lest he awake with some other personality. He wished more than anything that he could kill the confederate soldier that dwelled with in him.

He glared at the dieing embers, poking them back into life again. The flames captivated him suddenly, and he grinned. If he couldn't kill his other self he could still injure him. Alfred ripped a hole in his grey trousers, baring the side of his thigh. He grabbed a branch, stuck it into the fire, and brought the flame to his bare skin.

He didn't know whether to laugh or to scream.


	5. Commies

"It's not such a bad little house, is it?" Arthur said sounding almost disappointed with his observation.

"See, I told you you'd like it!" Alfred said joyously, "It's all new construction and everything. It's got a top of the line refrigerator and a fancy new washing machine, and I haven't even shown you the best part yet!"

Alfred was practically shining with excitement and pride as he grabbed Arthur by the forearm and dragged him from the kitchen into the living room. With a grand gesture the younger nation pointed to an item in the corner in the room.

"A television!" Arthur said with honest surprise. "I doubt many of the people on your street have those."

Alfred seemed pleased with this reaction, but acted with false modesty just the same. "They're becoming more and more common you know, and I wanted to wait until it wasn't so weird for me to have one. But I suppose I'll still be one of the first. You could get one too, if you wanted."

"The radio does me fine for now," Arthur told him, going over to inspect the machine. "I don't suppose you ever have moments when you suddenly remember how hard it used to be to get news."

"Of course I do! Sometimes I think how much easier it woulda been when I was a kid if I just coulda picked up the phone and called you." Arthur slid his eyes over to look at Alfred out of the corner of his eye. It hadn't been long since they'd begun talking to one another more comfortably about their past, and he was wary that Alfred would regret bringing it up. His worry, however, was unfounded. "It's too bad there aren't any pony express riders anymore. I always wished I could've been a pony express rider."

"World power or not, you still act like a child," Arthur said fondly as he stood up.

"I am not!" Alfred snapped angrily.

"Oh really?" Arthur asked raising an eyebrow. He reached up and plucked the baseball cap off of Alfred's blond head. "You've gone and dressed yourself like a little boy."

"Not like a _little_ boy. There are plenty of college kids who go around dressed like this, at least in their time off. No one really considers people my age to be full grown adults anymore anyway."

"And here I was under the impression that most humans considered three hundred and fifty to be ripe old age," Arthur teased, handing the cap back to the younger nation.

"Oh shut up, you know what I mean," Alfred said blushing as he tugged his hat back on his head. There was a moment of awkward silence, before Arthur spoke up with concern in his voice.

"That won't raise any suspicion will it? No one around here will think it odd for a youth to be living on his own, will they?"

"Its uncommon, but it's not so weird that anyone would get all neurotic about it. The people around here are pretty awesome. The family next door is especially great. They're the Johnsons. The mother's name is Mary-Ann, and she brought me cookies the day I moved in. Her husband is called Ralph and he's a businessman with a company that makes car parts. They got two kids, both boys, Billy and Robby. They're both in Elementary school."

"It sounds as though you've adopted yourself into the family already," Arthur said with a chuckle.

"Nuh uh! I know when to mind my own business, and I can take care of myself too."

"I know, I know. Don't take everything so personally. You have no sense of humour when it comes to yourself. Now, where were you saying you wanted to go to dinner?"

"There's this new place nearby that serves hamburgers, you've got to check it out!"

OoOoO

Arthut knocked on the pristine white door of Alfred's newest home and waited patiently to be let in. It had been many months since his last visit to the States, and he had only seen Alfred briefly between times. He stood there, thinking over the wonders of air travel, when he began to realize just how long it was taking for Alfred to let him in.

He knocked again, this time leaning to the side in an attempt to see through the window next to the door. The shade was pulled down, but he could see light coming through the sides. He was certain that Alfred was home.

"For Christ's sake Alfred, let me in, dammit!"

The door was cracked open and then, after a moment, it was opened very slowly.

"Sorry, I thought you might not be… safe," Alfred said, casting his eyes about suspiciously. "Come in," he said quickly grabbing Arthur by the arm and yanking him into the house. He shut the door quickly and then peered through the blinds.

"What the bloody hell is the matter with you?" Arthur asked blandly, raising a curious eyebrow at the world power currently hunched over by the windows.

"Communists," Alfred answered seriously without turning around.

"What? You think Ivan is lurking in your bushes waiting to see what you'll do next?" Arthur said with a chuckle. "Honestly, Alfred that's utterly absurd."

"It's not funny, Arthur!" Alfred said turning on him, "He's got spies. They could be anywhere. They could be anyone. You just can't be sure."

He looked Arthur over carefully as though unsure if he could be trusted. Arthur glared at him, making it very clear the Alfred should not be judging him, without saying a word. Alfred seemed to read the expression and he cheered up slightly.

"But I can trust you Arthur. I can always trust you. You're my closest ally!" He embraced the old nation quickly, practically lifting him off the ground. "Now come on. Let's get you something to eat."

Arthur sat quietly at the kitchen table as Alfred made him tea. He was certain it wouldn't be very good, but Alfred seemed desperate for something to with his hands, so he let him at it. Alfred just seemed so nervous. He was full of unfocused adrenaline, as though all his immense energy had come out at once and was buzzing about the room.

Alfred came, at last, to the table bearing a teacup for Arthur and plate of cookies (or biscuits, it depended on who you asked). He sat down across from his old guardian and bit dejectedly into a baked good.

"Alfred, what's bothering you? I don't think I've ever seen you this… on edge," Arthur asked slowly. It was true too. He had often seen Alfred frightened, but he did fear much the same way he did every other emotion. His emotions were extreme and changeable. Happiness, anger, sadness, and fear often seemed to come in powerful bursts. This fear, however, was less extreme but sustained. It was almost more disturbing, and he had the uneasy feeling that Alfred had been like this for months.

"I think the Johnsons are communists," Alfred said quietly after a long silence had elapsed. It took Arthur a moment to even realize to whom he was referring.

"Your neighbors? The lovely 'All American' family you were so happy to have met the last time I was here? You must be kidding me," Arthur took a sip of his unsatisfactory tea.

"Well, of course, I don't really think that the children are communists. They're good boys; they do well in school and play baseball and stuff like that. I'm not even sure if Mrs. Johnson is in on it. My guess is she's an unwilling accomplice. She wishes her husband were still the good, loyal, American man she married. She's so in love with him, though, that she can't do anything but cry silently as he holds his meetings and corresponds with his Russian accomplices."

If Alfred hadn't been so completely serious Arthur might have laughed, but he seemed honestly worried about what he was saying.

"Alfred," he began slowly, unsure how to say what he was thinking, "You've made all this up. You're so worried about this damn thing with Russia that you're starting to see things everywhere. You've let your imagination run away with you."

"I did not! You haven't seen him. He goes out alone a lot of nights, and he has these meetings. He's up to something I'm sure of it. He's the most suspicious person on this street, and let me tell you there are a lot of suspicious people around."

"Personally, the person I'd most suspect would be the one with his shades always drawn in the middle of the day," Arthur said. Alfred was not amused.

"I'm the United States, I can't be a communist!" he said indignantly.

"Listen, I'm sure he's not a communist. He probably has a book club or a bible study group or something like that. And he probably goes bowling or he's cheating on his wife, I don't know. Even if he were a communist, isn't he allowed to speak as he pleases? Freedom of speech and all that."

"Communists are traitors. Traitors aren't protected by the constitution."

Arthur sighed heavily and put his tea down. "Let's talk of something else Alfred, and please can we pull up the shades just a tad. The darkness is getting to me."

oOoOo

The next time they saw one another was in New York. There had been a diplomatic meeting, and it wasn't until afterward that they got a chance to speak to one another. Alfred invited Arthur back to his apartment.

When the two men were settled Arthur first spoke.

"How's that little house of yours out in Wisconsin? I notice that you've got the television here."

Alfred didn't answer immediately. He sat down and spent an unnecessarily long time taking off his shoes first. "I had to move," he said at last."

"Too many communists?" Arthur asked carefully.

"Sort of," the youth responded, "I reported him, you know, Mr. Johnson. But the local authorities didn't believe me."

"They didn't?" Arthur asked in surprise, "Too low down to know who you are I suppose."

"Yeah, but…" Alfred looked as though he was having trouble saying what had to come next. "They didn't believe me because…"

"Alfred, what is it?"

"He reported me first! Arthur when I called them they thought I was a communist. Me! The feds had to come pick me up the next day, and I had to leave that house. I suppose it could have been worse, if I hadn't had an in with the government, but still."

Arthur sat down beside him quietly. He wondered, vaguely if Alfred had learned something, and what he should say in that case, but Alfred was soon to disappoint him.

"The worst thing is, Johnson is still out there, and I just know he's planning something."


	6. The Mosque

There had been a long meeting that afternoon and Arthur wasn't much in the mood for conversation. He had followed Alfred back to his apartment just the same, and was glad to see that the younger nation felt fine about leaving him alone.

Arthur was reading _Nicholas Nickleby_ as part of his promise to reread his way through the complete works of Dickens. Alfred was happily poking at his I-pad, undoubtedly playing some idiotic game that he'd downloaded off the internet. He was also watching the news, looking up every minute or so and then changing the channel. He had switched between Fox, MSNBC, and CNN countless times by this point.

"What are you playing?" Arthur asked with mild interest. The gentleman in him was feeling rather rude for simply throwing himself on Alfred's hospitality without giving so much as a word.

"Oregon Trail," Alfred answered simply. He sighed heavily and slunk down into the couch dramatically. "Life was so much simpler then."

"You look to the past with rose colored glasses," Arthur told him, smiling slightly despite himself.

"An eagle ate my daughter," Alfred responded miserably. The Englishman had no real response for this, so he simply went back to his novel.

Eventually Arthur lifted his eyes, once again, from Dickens. Alfred was thoroughly distracted from his I-pad. He was watching the news intently. Curious, Arthur followed Alfred's gaze to the screen. The news anchor was talking about some Mosque that was going to be built in New York City.

He had heard a little about it before, and he knew enough to tell that many Americans were raising a fuss because of how close it was to the place where the world trade centers had once stood. The Anchor was saying that the vast majority of Americans were firmly against the construction, but Arthur could have guessed as much from the way Alfred's hand hovered unconsciously over the scar he had received on 9/11.

"What are you thinking?" he asked anyway, curious to see exactly how everything was sitting with him.

"It's like they're rubbing it in my face," Alfred said in a low growl.

"Who?" Arthur pressed.

"Muslims," Alfred said, but he seemed mildly uncomfortable.

"They're Americans you know."

"Oh shut up, Arthur. You knew what I was gonna say. Did you ask just so you could sit there and be all smug?" the young nation snapped. There was some truth in what Alfred had just said, but Arthur had not asked solely so that he could feel superior. He was also curious as to exactly how Alfred would react, and he guessed by his response that Alfred knew he was being unreasonable.

"All I'm saying is that they're your citizens, and as such they are entitled to religious freedom. They have every right to build there," Arthur told him flatly.

"It's not fair!" Alfred said suddenly, and the older nation could not figure out quite what he was talking about. Alfred glared at the floor before turning to Arthur again, "It's not fair. Whenever I do something like this, whenever I freak out and treat some group of people differently, the whole world gives me hell. It's not fair. I'm not the only one who does it. You do it. Every nasty thing my people ever did to Irish immigrants was learned from you. You still have trouble with immigration too. You have people who are unfair. You have moments when you're unreasonable. Everybody does it. Most of Europe is freaked out about Muslim immigrants, and gypsies or whatever. I never had any problem with gypsies. Asia has problems like that too. You know as well as I do that you can't walk around Japan with blond hair and be treated normally. No one accuses him of anything. Why does everyone expect me to be perfect?"

Arthur was taken aback. He had no idea that Alfred had been sitting there simmering with these sorts of emotions. "Alfred, you're not the only one who gets looked down on for these sort of humanitarian problems."

"But everyone still expects more of me. Why do I have to be perfect?" Alfred seemed honestly upset. There were tears of deep emotion in the corners of his eyes, and though Arthur did not expect them to fall, he was still stunned to see them there. He put aside his book and held out an arm to the young nation, much as he would have when he was still a child.

"Alfred come here," he said gently. Alfred came to him slowly, but let Arthur run his hands soothingly through his hair. The older nation did not continue until Alfred's breathing had regulated. "It's not a bad thing to have people expect more of you. It means that they think you're capable of more."

"But I'm not," Alfred said moodily, "Not when it comes to being reasonable anyway."

"Yes you are," Arthur told him, although he was sure he would regret it later. "Alfred, that constitution of yours and that damned declaration, they mean something to the rest of the world. You were the first country to take all the pretty ideals that we were cultivating in Europe and put them into practice. The ideals you were founded on are truly beautiful and so many nations have followed in your footsteps since then. Alfred, there is nothing so many of us want from you more than for you to live up to those ideals. Your people and the rest of world, or most of the world anyway, we want you to succeed in what you set out to do.

"When people hate you, when they look down on you or turn up their noses, it's because of the things you do that go against your promises. Alfred people give you hell because you've made promises that you haven't lived up to. They're disappointed in you because you've given them such wonderfully high expectations."

Alfred stared at Arthur as though he were stunned. The older nation so rarely complimented him, and to hear these words of faith was quite unexpected. But his ego was still feeling weak and his next words were quiet.

"Do you think I'll ever be able to live up to it, to the promises and everything I was founded on?"

"You've made a lot of stupid mistakes in your life time, but you seem to improve with each of them. I suppose eventually you'll run out of groups of people to be afraid of. Let's see how you're doing in the next four hundred years."

Alfred smiled at him, seeming almost grateful to be teased like that.

" I suppose I have gotten over a lot of my old problems, at least mostly. It gets better every year doesn't it?" He said sounding like his old optimistic self. "I suppose someday I won't be so… nervous about Muslims anymore, or illegal immigrants."

"Immigrants my ass, you have a problem with Mexicans," Arthur said picking up his book again.

"Do not!" Alfred snapped defensively, but his mood was much to improved to feel anger for long. "I bet there's other stuff I'll get over too."

"The gay thing, I hope," Arthur said looking at him.

"You can't talk any. You still just have civil unions or something like it, I at least have gay marriage in New England. So you can stop acting all high and mighty and progressive and crap," he settled back into the couch happily.

He was silent for a long time, looking thoughtful and strangely at peace. A look of determination flashed across his face and he turned to Arthur. "I'll try too; I really will. Even when I'm scared and I feel hateful and unreasonable, I'll try my hardest to be all logical and stuff. If I try and be bigger than my fears, if I try remember my promises when I most want to ignore them, well then I suppose someday I won't be afraid of anything."

Arthur smiled at him honestly, "I hope so."


End file.
